You
by Radioheaded
Summary: Wilson, after Wilson's Heart. H/W


You're not sure where you are when you wake the first time; you're uncomfortable, fully-clothed and have to force your stuck-shut eyes open

You're not sure where you are when you wake the first time; you're uncomfortable, fully-clothed and have to force your stuck-shut eyes open. Salt crystallized between the lashes, gluing the lids together like fragile stitches waiting to be dissolved. You wake up fully, glaring into the heady afternoon sun that doesn't seem to touch you, doesn't seem to warm you, and shrug out of your jacket that smells like the hospital and her and your own sweat. You think about going back to sleep but when you lay down your thoughts race, move in circles faster and faster until they're blurs of syllables, beginnings and middles and ends so out of order they can't be pronounced, much less processed.

So you get up, moving against inertia that wants you to _stay, _wants your body to let itself go, to sleep and sleep and sleep until consciousness is fully lost. They're heavy, those limbs you used to know, heavy and awkward and your weight throws you off so you bump into things as you take your keys from the dresser and head out of the apartment. When you reach your car you're surprised at how normal it looks, how it's parked correctly. Everything should be destroyed; everything should look how you feel because the world has been cracked open and everyone should know that—everyone should see. When you get in the leather is cool against your flushed skin so you lean into it, push your head back and sigh and revel in the simple sensation that calms you for a moment; but then it's gone because you happen to wonder if Amber is feeling anything like this—if there's anything to be felt after. After.

Your thoughts shift to her and she's in front of you, whispering your name, kissing you, smiling at you, then dying in your arms, waiting for you to say goodbye. Waiting for you to let her go. When your hands slide over the wheel you notice the piece of paper crushed between your palm and fingers; it's wrinkled now so you straighten it, smooth it and put it in your shirt pocket, content to feel it through your shirt, content to let your heart beat against it and think it's somehow touching her. You blink fast a few times, clearing the warmth that's collected there before starting the car. It hums quietly, waiting for you and so you lead it, slowly, where you need to go.

Cuddy's there in front of you seemingly as soon as you enter the building; before the first footfall she's there, telling you to go home, to rest. They don't need you now; take care of yourself. You whisper to her 'I am,' and look her in the eyes before sidestepping her and continuing on your way. You feel her gaze on your back but you know she's letting you go. You slip through her fingers like sand, no longer anything stable or solid. She can't get a grip, and you won't let her. You walk through the halls like that, ignoring the sympathetic looks of the staff, escaping the do-gooders with their useless words. When you arrive outside the door, you can't enter right away and so you peer through the small window, looking at the unconscious face of the patient within.

With a deep breath you enter; you're barely in when a nurse appears behind you and asks if you need anything. You order painkillers and a sleep aid; she looks at you curiously and you shortly explain they're for him. You keep your back to him and wait for the meds; you dismiss the nurse and turn around. The sight isn't comforting; his_--House's—_your mind corrects—face is pale, drawn against sheets that wash him out even more; the lobe of his right ear is crusted with blood, but the pulse is steady enough. You approach slowly, laying a hand on the bed for support. The heart monitor beeps faster and you reach a hand down, feel his strong pulse beneath your fingers. He's alive.

You pick up the first syringe, check for air bubbles and gently deliver its contents straight into House's veins, bypassing the IV. He'll sleep for hours now; won't wake up to you. So you feel better when you touch his skin, feel its cool absorb your warmth. He doesn't stir, gives no indication he feels your presence. You try picking the arm up, your gaze flicking back and forth between the limb and his face, like a child sneaking into the room of a sleeping parent. No changes. Nothing. So, carefully, you slide his toward the edge of the bed until there's enough room for the both of you. You slip your shoes off and curl up next to him, take his hand and whisper to him the things you can't say if he were awake.

"I blame you but I know it's not your fault and you're here because of me and I'm sorry and I don't have anywhere to be now but with you and—"

You keep talking but it doesn't make sense, even to you. When you're reduced to tears that hit and miss his skin, slide down his cheeks or hit the sheets like rain, you stop talking and try to breath. You watch liquid trail down his cheek without meaning to wipe it away from his skin; he moves into the touch and whispers something that takes your beaten mind a few seconds to process:

"Sorry."

You sigh, look at him and reach for the chart that rests on the bed frame; it's been long enough to give him the pain meds and so you do and feel his muscles relax, watch his waking body relinquish itself to sleep, eagerly agree to escape consciousness for awhile. Your mind and body pull to do the same, to let go and so you fall back into the cramped bed, press yourself into House and dream of maybe making it through this. As you fall asleep, you think you feel a touch ghosting up and down your arm.


End file.
